


Rhythmia

by ohhhhyoufromchinatoo



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Dragon's Dogma, Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dragon's Dogma allowed me to recreate Rebecca Chambers and Billy Coen, Dragon's Dogma!AU, Gen, and that was it i was done it was over for me, ha, my ultimate OTP traveling together fighting griffons and dragons, of the many, self indulgent things i have written, they also didn't get a happy ending in this game either hahah, this is probably number one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 13:03:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1388635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohhhhyoufromchinatoo/pseuds/ohhhhyoufromchinatoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Rebecca Chambers/Billy Coen, Dragon's Dogma!AU) What is a heartbeat but the thrumming of life beneath your fingertips? The fabled savior of Gransys and her erstwhile traveling companion. A young fisherwoman thrust into the role of hero  and her loyal friend and ally, a vagabond drifter shaped from the mists of the worlds in between. The only reminder that she once had a heart is the large scar that jags it way across her chest and he never had a heart in the first place.</p>
<p>The leather belts fall to the floor with a clink that reminds Rebecca of the sound of shackles around the arms of Gran Soren’s condemned and she begins to unravel the thin, bloodied bandages around Billy’s chest. “I want you to come to bed with me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rhythmia

**Author's Note:**

> OK so in Dragon's Dogma the main gist is that your player character gets their heart torn from their chest by a dragon. They must travel to reclaim it back, aided by Pawns, otherwordly mercenaries that appear human but allegedly lack ambition, spark, and willpower. The story raises some questions about what exactly makes one human and since I made my Arisen and Pawn in the image of Rebecca Chambers and Billy Coen the game just. fucked me up completely
> 
> so i wrote happy fluffy things to share with you guys! also included as visual reference are screenshots showing how they appear in game and in fic

 

Since you can screenshot ingame I thought I would include visual reference as to how they appear in the fic!

* * *

> _"And he struck my heart with deadly force and said, 'This heart, it is not yours."'_
> 
> Leonard  Cohen, By The Rivers Dark

 

As the great red dragon, larger than any prophecy could have ever hoped to foretell, had loomed over her on the sands of Cassardis, Rebecca was sure her heart had been pounding the fastest it had ever been. Who was she, a lone fisherwoman, to stand against might writ large?

His- her? Its? Do beings beyond the imagining of mortal ken adhere to such conceptions as gender?—eyes had shifted from a pale blue to crimson red, brilliant as the sun setting on the ruined horizon beyond the stretch of its wingspan.

_Come on, move!_ Rebecca screamed at her muscles to obey but they were as lead, the tides bestirred by the dragon soaking the cotton of her simple shift. She tried to futilely skitter away from the clawed foot descending upon her, sand sticking uncomfortably to her back.

The dragon’s blood red eyes gleamed with a predatory intelligence,  tail whipping about and scattering the already ruined planks and rubble of Cassardis’ ships and homes. A single talon, razor sharp, hovered for an agonizing moment over her chest.

The visage of the dragon, enormous on the ruined shore of Cassardis, was one that had forever marked itself on her mind. She would never forget the effortless motion in its talons, the human intelligence radiating from its scaled face, as it punctured clothing and skin, and tore out her heart and swallowed it whole.

The memory was one fit to enflame her pulse and set her heart to racing, were it still beating in her chest.

But now- the grass of the plains of Gran Soren tickling her face in the afternoon breeze as she crouched to avoid bowfire, the chill of frosty air as one of the pawns she had enlisted beckons the cold touch of Frazzil, the cries of bandits caught unaware in the snaring strings of another pawns trap- this too, would send adrenaline and fear and a sweet rush of victory through her veins had she only a heart.

Rebecca, Arisen and woman upon which the hopes of all Gransys fell, stood and scanned the battlefield around her. One pawn quickly dispatches the bandit that had been harrying the group with bowfire from atop long desolate ruins with a simple slitting of the throat. She _feels_ rather than hears the shattering of men, frozen with a cloud of ice and broken apart like so much tinder for the fire.

Attuned to the lay of the battlefield she may be, too late does she hear the rush of footsteps behind her and as she turns, she sees a bandit armored in a cuirass of steel and a helm obscuring his face, like as not the leader of the group, hands grasping the hilt of a broadsword, preparing for a downward slash that would cleave her head from her shoulders.

“None shall touch the Arisen!”

Rebecca hears a squelching sound, wet and almost pulpy. She opens her eyes (for they are instinctively clenched shut) at the sensation of liquid, damp and warm, dripping steadily onto her cheeks.

In front of her, broad frame an erstwhile, stalwart shield, is her Pawn and loyal companion, Billy. Sweat from the exertion of combat drips from his sculpted brow and ruddies his high cheekbones, and lips that so rarely draw into a smirk- if they aren’t in a reticent, thin line- are trembling and blood is spilling forth from between them.

Rebecca’s dazed mind is slow to comprehend the scene before her, her closest ally and the bandit that sought to end her life locked together in combat, neither backing down.

Every breath from Billy seems to come at great effort, muscular shoulders heaving and each breath rasping from his lips.

Rebecca wonders why until her round, blue-green eyes slowly travel downward and sees the blade lodged in her partner’s chest.

If her heart still beat within her body, Rebecca knows that it would break in two.

Her mind begins to blur with all the possibilities and strategies, but her fists ball with rage of their own accord and without  her own beckoning her staff is raised in front of her, shimmering waves of heat radiating from the red pulses of energy that bend at her touch.

As her magic begins to take shape, Billy seizes the blade embedded in his torso. With a strength that even his muscular frame did not betray he pulls forward, and with a wet, heavy sound drives the blade deeper into his chest. The bandit leader, transfixed in place by fear or awe, Rebecca does not know, recoils in surprise as his body, hands still tightly grasped to the hilt of his sword, is suddenly nose to nose with that of her Pawn, and his steel helm is savagely torn off.

With a swing of Billy’s mailed fist his surprise quickly turns to shouts of pain as blood erupts from the center of his face and through the gathering swell of her magic, Rebecca hears a wrenching , snapping sound as Billy strikes again and breaks the bones in the bandit’s nose.

The power of her magic is at its crux, heat radiating from the sigil in front of her, and Rebecca raises her left hand. From nowhere a wall of flame roars into life at the spot where the bandit cradled his ruined face, the sudden force of the flame thrusting him into the air. The bandit burns alive, screams stopping abruptly as they begin, the body that falls to earth a flaking mass of twisted metal and burned, blackening flesh, and Rebecca wryly wonders if she’ll ever get used to the smell.

The flickering flames of the Comestion wall die down sparse seconds after they were conjured, the wreath of smoke and the smell of charred flesh the testament to their ordeal in the otherwise pristine, picturesque fields of Gran Soren.

“Ngh… I was careless…”

Rebecca turns on her heels, her worn leather shoes kicking up dirt as she rushes to the side of her constant companion.

Billy is crumpled in the grass, red pool of blood rapidly spreading from beneath him as a silvery white cloud hovers in the air above him, strands of light undulating in the air.

The fingers of the Void beyond threatening to drag him away, beckoning him in a language only Pawns understood.

She kneels at his side, hands finding his bare stomach, blade sunk deep in his chest. She gingerly touches the wound out of a morbid sense of curiosity, trembling hands coming away damp with blood.

“I hardly suppose telling you ‘this might hurt a little’ will make this easier.” She grimaces, hands clutching the hilt of the sword to wrench it free from its place in Billy’s chest.

“I would feel all this and more for your sake, Arisen. Please, do as you must.”

The frank honesty with which her Pawn- no, her _friend_ \- speaks, his gaze, blue eyes reminding Rebecca of the ocean waves beating against the shores of Cassardis meeting Rebecca’s own bluish-green shade, catch her off guard and she opens her mouth, searching for words made hard to find by the emotions whirring around in her head.

However she can only offer a smile that she hopes is grateful as she prepares to pull the blade from the chest of the man who saved her life.

Rebecca plants her feet firmly into the ground for some leverage, straightens her spine, and  pulls with all the strength her slight frame possesses.  The blade is not so heavy as it first appeared and acquiesces to her touch, wrenching free from flesh and muscle with a gout of blood.

Rebecca holds the sword in her hands, wet with the blood of the man prone at her feet, and she hurls it away with disgust.  A little morbid thought flickers in her head that pulling steel out of a man is easier than she would have ever imagined.

She kneels once again, left hand instinctually reaching for the medicinal herbs of Greenwarish, ground to soothing paste that eased inflammation and fought infection, to apply to the wound.  

Her right hand takes to his chest, pressing against the shorn flesh to still the flow of blood, as her left gathers the poultice, and she would think that his pulse would be gradually slowing with the loss of blood, had he possessed a heart that was capable of stopping.

Billy eyes her, hands busy, his weight supported on his shoulders as he lies on the ground, and for a second Rebecca thinks she sees a smirk flash across his face, at least certainly in his eyes.

“Tis like to leave a scar equal to match the Arisens’ own.”

“I should pray that you’re not so eager as to add on to the collection of scars you possess.” Rebecca tries to squish the smile that threatens to break onto her face at Billy’s remark as she administers the salve of Greenwarish.

Her hands work the muscle of Billy’s chest with skilled ease; the healing properties of the herbs that cousin Benita picked in Cassardis had always been a point of interest for the fisherwoman-turned-Arisen and so she was quite knowledgeable of the effects of the more common foliage around Cassardis’ shores. 

So the Arisen was keen that her pack and those of her Pawns always carried medicinal herbs, for the soothing of fatigue, for the arousal of one from sleep, for the curing of poisons, for all the various and sundry ills the great plains and unexplored caverns of Gransys and the monsters that inhabited them bore in their talons.

Billy offers her an appreciative smile as Rebecca applies the soothing effect of the herbs. As Rebecca’s hands knead the flesh of his exposed chest and apply pressure she sends a stream of Anodyne through her fingers.

The shimmering light of the spell aided the soothing of fatigue and relieved pain but was unfortunately incapable of knitting flesh together and resetting broken bones- there was a limit to magic, even that called upon by the Arisen, fabled savior of the world entire.

“Thank you, again, for saving my life.” Rebecca tells Billy, a blush tingeing her cheeks as her hands ministrate their last bit of care, small jolts of magic glimmering upon the skin of Billy’s chest.

“No words of gratitude are necessary, milady- your actions are more than enough thanks.” Billy hauls himself to his feet- not without effort, Rebecca notices, painful stings of remorse in the back of her mind- and bows with an exaggerated flourish.

Rebecca stares incredulously at the affected actions of her Pawn and shakes her head, a fond smile painting her face and betraying the sense of gratitude and warmth she feels when Billy is near despite the silly actions he might affect. She begins to stride in the direction of Gran Soren’s gates, an evening of relaxation at the inn a sound plan after their fight.

“Again with the ‘milady’ and ‘Master’; you know you have no need of such titles. I’m your friend- besides, you think I would just let you return back to the Void?”

“Twould be within your rights as Arisen, for her to act with her Pawns as she sees fit, and that includes leaving a crippled Pawn behind;  for those of the legion are only fit to travel in your company as long as we can serve you.”

“What kind of Arisen would I be, were I to discard you like trash? You’re staying with me.”

Billy is silent for a few moments, the sound of their footsteps across the well worn dirt path of the plains of Gran Soren tenuously breaking the silence, a rhythmic march. Rebecca’s foot prints are small, delicate, swallowed up in the print of Billy’s larger, longer gait as he keeps close to her back like a second shadow.

Rebecca notices the noiselessness; her loyal Pawn is wont to use more words than necessary at the best of times. The reticence is not out of place so much as the length of time he goes without speaking.

She falls back from the head of her traveling party, lightening her stride to where she is side by side with Billy. Rebecca looks up (and over) at her erstwhile companion.

“You will never become a burden to me. You help lessen the weight of the world on my back.”

Billy’s blue eyes meet hers, his high cheekbones tinged with a luminescent pink.

_And people liken Pawns to emotionless dolls_ , Rebecca thinks to herself, a smile spreading all the way to her round cheeks as she sees her normally taciturn, self sacrificing pawn lost for words.

“It does this Pawn proud to hear you say so.” Rebecca finally hears her partner mumble, his eyes darting around as he busies his hands with rearranging the tattered ebon  fabric settled across his shoulders.

“Besides, without your aid against the group of bandits, I would be dead, like as not. So the Arisen is in _your_ debt.”

Billy scowls at this, but only with his lips- his eyes are warm. He waves his muscular arms noncommittally as if to ward her praise away. “What kind of Pawn would _I_ be were I not willing to sacrifice my life, such as it is, for the Arisen?  Tis the will of whatever same voice that calls us to the Everfall, that beckons us to The Void, that we go to such lengths to aid the one that bears the Dragon’s selfsame scar.”

The meager traveling party of four- Rebecca’s two support pawns are mercifully discrete and avoid intruding on their conversation, something she notes will definitely be rewarded later- are mere steps to the entrance gate of Gran Soren. The guards standing on either side of the gate, garbed in chain mail and the standard royal blue mantle signifying service to His Grace Duke Edmunsbane, nod appreciatively as the group enters the city.

Rebecca adjusts the black, round rimmed glasses perched atop the bridge of her nose as they walk to the Market Square, thankful they were not lost amidst the chaos of battle.

 She had been wearing them since she had cleaved the Hydra’s head from its body at the encampment; they were not an aid to her vision, her eyesight was sharp and clear and she could see the horizon over Cassardis’ shores for miles- rather, she had self indulgently purchased them for herself.

Jonathan had been more than eager to accept Rift Crystals as payment, a resource which Rebecca possessed more than enough of. The small, circular orbs had shone and twinkled a brilliant amethyst as she had passed them to the Pawn, a warm sensation remaining even after they had left her grasp.

_Sadly, the same cannot be said of our gold._ Rebecca thinks morosely, the hemp pouch hanging at her hips woefully bereft of coin.

The sound of the round, gold tender clinking together, melodically and reassuringly at her waist, was one she had gone for far too long without hearing. The doors to the inn of Gran Soren creaked open as she pushed inward, a sound as familiar as the bow the innkeeper, Asalam, always affected to those gracious enough to grant him patronage.

“Our gold is just barely enough to cover for lodging and a few new wares from Caxton,” Rebecca says, wishing she didn’t sound so disappointed at the sorry state of her finances as she placed 300 precious pieces of gold into the hands of the man behind the counter.

Cassardis’ inn was several hundred gold pieces cheaper yet Rebecca did not relish the trek back to Cassardis, the glowing light of her lantern and the chatter of her Pawns the only company on the moonless nights.

The bone chilled hands of the undead, rising from the unmarked graves beneath their feet, scrabbling and clawing at the dirt and lurching with hands outstretched, sallow, rotten faces illuminated by lantern light served as a deterrent for traveling at night, as well.

Rebecca has to suppress the shudder that shivers throughout her limbs as she recalls the undead woman, clad in filthy, tattered rags, shredded lips opening and asking her, “Where is my baby?”

“ ‘Tis sad that the gratitude of the people of Gran Arisen does not serve to fill our purses,” Billy comments, bringing Rebecca back to the present.

With a smile tugging at her lips from Billy’s words, Rebecca signs her name and those of her companions on Asalam’s  ledger as she cinches the drawstrings of her coin purse- 300 coins lighter- and appends it close to her waist. “That’s a resource we have in abundance, I’d say.”

She waves her two companion Pawns closer to her side as the streetlights of Gran Soren are lit outside and the skies begin to darken to a purplish black hue.

The tall, well built male Pawn with shorn red hair and a scar decorating the expanse of his left cheek was named Jake, his light blue eyes often moody and hard to read except in the heat of battle (where they became almost frenzied) and the petite female Pawn, Sherry, with blonde hair in a bob swept to the left possessed round, delicate features and almost twinkling bright blue eyes. 

The two worked well in tandem, Jake’s dagger and arrows a natural compliment to the bolts of magic Sherry flung from her staff, and often amicably chatted with each other about nearly everything, and Rebecca wonders once again at where the notion of Pawns lacking humanity arose from; the two possessed a friendship as real as any she had seen.

Rebecca dug in the depths of her pockets for the items she had looted from the monsters her group had conquered that day. She grasps the handle of a knife, blade razor thin and equally sharp (a lightweight, easily handled product not especially favored in the smithing circles of Gran Soren) and places it in Jakes’ black leather gloved hands. Jake smirks as he pockets the gift and Rebecca gathers that’s as close to an expression of gratitude she’ll get.

Her hands clench around a small, solid orb and for Sherry she presents a sphere of shimmering, ethereal miasma plucked from the dissipating figures of the Phantoms they had faced down in the Catacombs. Sherry’s round blue eyes light up as the Arisen hands her the otherworldly object and she bows in thanks.

“This Pawn is honored to receive such a gift. I will treasure it always and keep it close,” she tells the brown haired fisherwoman-turned-Arisen as she rises from her bowed position, and next to her Rebecca for a moment thinks she sees Jake roll his eyes. The warm hearted gratitude with which Sherry speaks makes Rebecca smile.

Jake and Sherry take to one of two double beds as the twilight hours of the day draw near. While Pawns, the myrmidons that were so often held to be human allegedly in appearance only, did not need for rest and relaxation as humanity did, the very pretense of the act seemed to fascinate Sherry and she implored Jake to imitate the Arisen in the art of something so mundane as sleeping. The image of the petite blonde tugging cheerfully at the edges of the direwolf fur mantle around the taller redhead’s neck, a look of fond resignation apparent on his features, was one Rebecca cherished.

Rebecca wearily seats herself on the mattress behind the screen Asalam erected come day’s end for the privacy of his patrons- for all the grandeur and wonder of the capital city of Gran Soren its inn was one meager floor.

Her bespectacled eyes take in the dirt stains that tarnish the soft cotton fabric of her Mahogany Cape, the surface area not covered in grime a rust colored, blotchy red from blood.  She shrugs the threadbare weight of her mahogany colored cape off her shoulders and marvels that her armor, such as it was, has lasted so long.

“I wonder if my journey as Arisen is more a danger to my life or my clothing,” she muses aloud, the tunic underneath her coat a mess of rips and tears. She sets her wrists down next to her hips and scoots further upon the bed as Billy nears and busies herself with removing her longkilt.

His armor could hardly be said to be faring any better; the bandages wrapped around his torso and forearms are beginning to fray, the black fabric blotted with brown spots of dried blood. The leather wraps, providing what scant protection they could to his torso, are weathered, the iron ring fastening them to his chest long since deprived of its burnished sheen.

Rebecca is not ashamed of baring her body and she knows  her loyal companion shares no such compunctions about his own, (there are those who would say, after all, Pawns do not possess the capacity to be self conscious) but as she dresses down to her night wear and she takes in the broad, smooth muscles of Billy’s stomach, the scars littering both of his arms, the fresh wound upon his well defined chest, a luminescent blush finds it way upon her cheeks.

She clears her throat and moves  as close to the window as she could and waits expectantly, the space on the roomy bed next to her waiting to be filled.

“You can rest easy for the night, Master- none shall harm you so long as I am here.” Billy tells her, hand gripping the hilt of his sword to reinforce his words, ready to draw from its sheath at a moments notice.

A rush of gratitude blooms in Rebecca’s chest, warming the spot where her heart used to beat; she was consistently amazed at the lengths he would go to in order to keep her safe. But at the same time she feels a little put out by her Pawn’s obliviousness.

“You propose that I let you stand on your feet for hours on end, in bloodstained armor, mere hours after receiving a blade through the chest, all for the sake of a safe night’s sleep?”

A hint of cherry red surfaces on her Pawn’s high cheekbones and he averts his eyes, “The Arisen must be aware that Pawns have no want of rest nor sleep. Our bodies do not wear down as humans do.”

Rebecca levers herself off the bed to stand in front of Billy, her meager height of just over five feet bringing her around her Pawn’s collarbone.

“We’re within the walls of Gran Soren, Billy. All around us are the highest stone walls throughout the expanse of Gran Soren, and every entrance into the city is staffed by His Grace’s guardsmen. It’s fortified and easily defensible.”

She stands on the arches of her feet, reaching  up and unfastening the black mantle tied fast around Billy’s shoulders. Rebecca folds it carefully and places it next to her own well worn, thoroughly abused clothes. Billy tenses slightly at her touch but does not withdraw away.

“Master, what are you proposing?” Billy tilts his head quizzically, in a fashion akin to the children of Cassardis when they did not understand one of Father Clement’s sermons in the church.

It was a comical sight coming from one normally so terse and short of word. Rebecca cannot help but smile as she removes the dented bracers affixed round Billy’s wrists- as before, he stiffens just a little, shoulders locking and back ramrod straight, but does not withdraw from the sensation of her touch.

“Just this once, let your guard down. You devote so much time to my safety and wellbeing that you neglect that of your own,” she tells him, hands working at the leather belts attached to Billy’s chest. She looks into his eyes, the blush once again returning on her cheeks, as red and hot as any dragon fire.

“I want you to forget your duty for a time. To ease your weary body and rest your faithful heart, if only for a night.”

The leather belts fall to the floor with a _clink_ that reminds Rebecca of the sound of shackles around the arms of Gran Soren’s condemned and she begins to unravel the thin, bloodied bandages around Billy’s chest. “I want you to come to bed with me.”

The sparse black wrappings tumble to the floor and her Pawn is naked from the waist up. His broad upper arms are awash with scars thin and wide, large and small, the patterns a tattoo, blades the needle that had worked their craft. The spot where the blade had pierced his chest tinged a slight pink.

Rebecca reaches out with petite fingers and traces the raised, bumpy length of the scar that was testament to her Pawn’s loyalty. Her hand lingers against the muscles of his chest as Billy stands over her, silent and curious as to his master’s intentions.

She, herself, is not entirely sure why her hand stays where it does, fingertips brushing against wounded flesh with light, hesitant touches spurred from concern, as if her wandering hand might hurt sure as any blade.

The silence between them comes to a close at a comfortable medium between a short, hesitant pause and a long, awkward lack of communication.  Rebecca withdraws her hand slowly, regretfully almost, realizing she was listening for the sound of Billy’s heart beating where there was none.

_Not that I have my own._ She reminds herself, conjuring the image of the dragon swallowing her still-beating heart, savoring it with a cunning gleam in its eye, a scaled, crimson bird of prey relishing the kill.

She looks down at the pair of leather work breeches adorning her Pawn’s lower body; while comprised of sturdy, supple leather, the wear and tear of their journey showed in the innumerable rips and tears,  little holes thin as arrowheads from the numerous archers that sought to find Rebecca as their target and instead reached Billy, and Rebecca thinks that perhaps they were a nice color, once, underneath all the dirt and blood.

“Are you comfortable with taking the last of your armor off? I do not wish to pry, but pray, I would not see you wearing such ragged, soiled clothing for what is longer than absolutely necessary,” She looks up into Billy’s eyes and sees his face flushed red as the apples hanging on the boughs of trees blooming throughout the Estan Plains.

Billy nods his head compliantly despite the bright red lending color to his cheeks. “No request from the Arisen is ever an imposition. Tis just…” He pauses, searching for words to express his feelings, fingers of his right hand coming up to tousle his long black hair in what Rebecca thought was an adorably sheepish manner, “odd. But I shan’t say I won’t lack for comfort, finally being rid of such well worn armor.”

His hands travel to the bronze belt buckle just below his navel and pause with uncertainty. They linger in the space around his waist, hesitant, and he looks down at his shorter master and Rebecca could swear his face burned an even brighter red than before. His mouth opens and closes several times, clearly embarrassed- Rebecca once again wondered if those who called Pawns living dolls had spent any amount of time with them- before he finally latches on to what he wants to say.

“Beg your pardon, Mistress, and ignorance shames this Pawn, but- I fear I know not how to…” Billy ducks his head and averts his gaze, unable to finish his sentence, afraid to meet the eyes of Arisen that would surely judge him. Rebecca steps closer and he almost cringes away, a child hesitant to meet their parents punishment for some petty mistake, shoulders sagging and chin dipped to chest.

With a twinge of realization in the pit of her stomach Rebecca remembers the day Billy had stepped forward from the Void, tall and broad shouldered and garbed in a pair of skull belts, a simple brown tunic, and traveling tights. He had always been armored and equipped from the day Rebecca’s hands had called him from the mists of the Rift.

Even as they had paid patronage to Reynard or Caxton and got fitted for new armor, Billy was scant without protection of some form, and with Reynard’s deft hands or Caxton’s appraising eyes Rebecca would help him adorn new bandages, leather chest wraps, and bracers.

_He has never been without armor, and as such he’s never been wont to removing it._

The Arisen wonders if her Pawn’s hesitancy stems from his lack of armor- a sure sign of his duty, a signifier that he served as the Arisen’s stalwart shield and protector. To be without armor even for such a short duration would feel alien to those perpetually clad in hauberk and chain. But to _substitute_ armor for actual clothing and wear it without cease?  Bedraggled and dirtied in tattered excuses for armament was hardly an image Rebecca wanted to portray to the citizens of Gransys, never mind the issues to health and hygiene.

She closes the distance between herself and her taller companion- at her modest height of just over five feet (which many of her childhood playmates in the village, Quina in particular, teased her over, reaching adulthood and still remaining so slight) she comes just about to the cleft of Billy’s collarbone.

His bared chest is broad, well defined and powerful, honed even more from the effort it takes to move and fight (surprisingly quickly, for one of such stature, as Rebecca is continually amazed at the dexterity with which Billy moves )with the weighty implements commonplace at Caxton’s armory.  Billy waits with an expression of expectation, his eyes meeting Rebecca’s and the blush returns once again to Rebecca’s cheeks.

The situation is hardly particularly romantic- the Arisen realizes she is undressing her Pawn for the first time because he naught had urgent reason for removing his armor until now- yet all the same Rebecca’s face tinges a rosy pink and she inwardly curses the thoughts and images that begin to race to her mind , of Billy holding her in his strong arms, protecting her from the burdens the mantle of Arisen bore, of him kissing her cheeks, her lips, her stomach.

She worries the inside of her left cheek with her tongue and tries to focus instead on the less life threatening, urgent task of helping Billy remove the last vestiges of his armor. Her hands work the golden buckle of his worker’s breeches and thread the belt from its loops. As she gingerly shimmies the pants down from his waist, her fingers splay across his hips, lingering on the muscles there, tight and defined as the rest of him.

The Arisen pauses, her fingers mere centimeters from her loyal Pawns hips as she undresses him. Billy watches her, his eyes following every movement of her hands, keen on witnessing her action- perhaps that he might replicate it independently in the future.

For all the reassurance she affords herself, that this is innocent, a favor for a loyal friend, nothing more, the maddening blush continues to warm her cheeks like lantern light and a feeling of shame and shelf consciousness begins to churn in the pit of her stomach.

She is here, baring her all for him, for the man that would follow her to the darkest caves and the tallest cliffs of Gransys, the person (myrmidon, sellsword, a hired hand, Rebecca reminds herself scathingly, as so many others are wont to tell her that Pawns are tools without a hand to wield them) that would cast himself into the arms of the Brine if she were to request it.  

Billy is her stalwart protector, her staunch ally, her close friend. Yet, as she touches him, hands ghosting upon bare skin that no one but she had explored, he does not respond. His breathing does not deepen, his skin does not flush red. He is merely observing, watching, the hands of another person upon him a curiosity to be observed, not a stimulation.

_Is it because my hands are upon him? Am I not one to inspire want?_ Rebecca’s mind cannot help but wander to such thoughts. The role of Arisen, immortalized in tales and emblazoned in glorious song, would inspire many a romantic notion in idler heads, but to her loyal Pawn, it seems the role of Arisen was firmly that of protectee.

 She shakes her head to banish such thoughts and Billy flinches away, startled at the sudden movement.

Trying to center her thoughts away from such feelings of despair, Rebecca hurriedly folds the pants and puts them aside with the rest of his clothing, the ever persistent blush on her cheeks steadily reddening and she curses herself, for her childish fantasies and for ever entertaining the notion that Billy might be attracted to her. She turns to him and clears the lump in her throat.

“Shall we take to bed, then?” Billy asks her, with an incline of his head. Rebecca moves aside the covers and sits abruptly as he draws close. If her heart were within her chest it would be beating as rapid as the wings of a hummingbird, and Rebecca idly wonders that if somewhere, the dragon is relishing the feeling of the agonized fluttering of her heart.

Rebecca smoothes the rumpled cotton sheets as Billy gingerly lowers himself next to her; with his immediacy she is again awestruck at how tall he is- the sheets that would normally drape over her like a cloak would probably come short on him.

Her knees are drawn up to her chest and she clenches her hands just above her ankles and she takes a moment to just… sit. The lanterns shimmering around the fountain square are slowly dimming in the fading light, the hustle and  bustle of the busy market receding to quiet chatter. 

For a few short hours there would be no bandits stalking the roads in the distance, eager to set upon them. There would be no undead crawling forth from the unrest of their graves, no Cyclopes turning  their single eye upon her traveling  party, no ogres picking their teeth clean with human  bones only to  turn their gaze towards the Arisen in frenzied hunger.

In her dreams she could be a simple fisherwoman again, not a young woman thrust into  a role immortalized in folktale and tavern song, scouring ancient temples and quarries overgrown with moss for answers to questions she couldn’t quite put into words. There would be no Dragon looming large in the distance, no weight of the world on her shoulders.

Rebecca laid her head upon the pillows, drawing her legs close to her torso and trying to focus on sleep and the comforting feeling of another person in close proximity. Eventually, her troubled mind slows down from whirring at such a frenzied pace and she drifts into slumber.

The sun is breaking over the horizon and bathing all of Gransys in the glow of dawn. Rebecca’s eyes blearily open to a world of a warm orange glow and her mind readies itself to rise, the early morning habits of her life before not so easily left behind in her journeys as Arisen. (Oh! But for a full night’s rest, just once.)

Any and all plans to rise are disrupted as Rebecca becomes attuned to the sensation of a warm body close by. She knows the word would color her Pawn’s cheeks but Billy is _snuggled_ up to her, the warm skin of his bare chest along her back, his legs tangled up in hers. Her own cheeks tinge red as a rush of heat flows to her cheeks and she realizes his hands are circled around her midsection entirely of his own will and she can feel his breaths, slow and steady, tickle the top of her head.

The entirety of him, the presence of her Pawn is comforting and assuring, a certainty in the world of questions and misgivings the role of Arisen necessitated her to inhabit. She is loathe to disturb him and so she rests contently, his arms entwined around her, grip protective but not overbearingly so, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes in the only sound apart from the morning song of the birds encircling  the capital.

Billy breathes out, almost a sigh of contentment, and he pulls Rebecca a little closer.  Later, Rebecca is not certain if it is the predawn haze, that warm and bleary world before full awakening, or if it is her own giddiness and contentment that fueled her imagination.

But, she would privately swear, as her Pawn’s arms draw themselves tighter around her body, the tips of his fingers brushing the skin of her stomach, his face buried in her hair, the broad expanse of his bare chest forming a warm wall against her back, that she felt something.

The sound was quiet, soft, almost indiscernible at first but consistent, steady, the pulse thrumming contentedly against her back like a tiny drum beat. She could swear in those early morning hours as Billy held her in his arms and pressed himself against her that she could feel the beating of a heart.


End file.
